Just A Touch
by wingedraksha
Summary: Mr. Darcy is, of course, a generally disagreeable man. In all respects. That was what Elizabeth had decided, right? So... Why this strange and decidedly UNwanted feeling, after something as simple as, well, just a touch? Set while Lizzie is at Netherfield


_**Please review! This is my first P&P fic, and I would be really grateful for any comments.**_

Leaning quietly on one of the majestic oaks that framed the main house at Netherfield, Elizabeth Bennett closed her eyes and inhaled. The sweet, smoky scent of grass at dusk filled her nostrils, along with the faintest glossy hint of rain. The sky above her was more black than gray now, the stars failing their muted battle against the dim, blotting clouds. The moon, near full, gave off a softly misty light that seemed strangely incongruous with the warmish evening air.

Elizabeth smiled to herself as she took in the blind beauty of the grounds of Netherfield, unconsciously comparing its wild, fey prettiness to that of the sleeping sister who awaited her within the house itself. Jane, even ill, was beautiful. And, Elizabeth knew, the oddly charming Mr. Charles Bingley had not failed to recognize this fact.

Turning slightly to rest her back against the trunk of the tree, Elizabeth tilted her head in thought. This habit, one shared by her beloved father, leant her an air of studied contemplation not unlike that of the marble statue of the goddess Diana that rested just to the left of the library door of Mr. Bingley's estate.

Mr. Bingley himself was quite all right, Elizabeth had decided. His looks were agreeable, in an unkempt, boyish way, and his manner even more so. His confused garbling of the English tongue, which he seemed to manage by thoroughly losing himself in the middle of each of his sentences, was immensely endearing, as were his wide, sheepish grins. Most of all, though, the glances the man bestowed on Jane Bennett were purely adoring, which gave Elizabeth the greatest leave to think him a good match for her sister.

His friend, however... Elizabeth's light, thoughtful smile faded, her mind turning to the dark, solemn Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. _A rather weighty name,_ she thought to herself, but her amusement soon faded along with the smile. She could not quite make the man out, and that put Elizabeth on uneven ground where he was concerned. He was arrogant, certainly, but there had been moments where he had seemed... seemed almost... _charming_, in a very dry manner. And he was surely handsome, though in a different way than his friend. Mr. Darcy's attractiveness came not from his personality, to be sure, but perhaps from his noble way of holding himself, and the fine, strong lines of his face. His eyes, however, were too sharp, too unreadable, and his mouth too unsmiling. Besides, all the fine features in the world could not compensate for his stern and bad tempered manner. Elizabeth nodded, opening her own eyes, having come to the conclusion that Mr. Bingley's strange friend was just a generally disagreeable person, and not to be dwelled upon.

And then, she let out a soft, sharp shriek at seeing the very man himself standing not three feet away from her.

"Mr. Darcy," cried she, her shock making the greeting much louder than necessary. Elizabeth closed her mouth and recovered swiftly as the gentleman in question nodded his head at her.

"Miss Bennett."

"I did not expect to see you here," Elizabeth said, her voice much lighter now. Mr. Darcy, looking uncomfortable in his dark suit and overcoat, glanced back at the house.

"Nor I you, Miss Bennett. However, I found that- that being outside would be preferable to further entertaining the company within." Elizabeth smiled at this, her eyes dancing. As much as she disapproved of his demeanor, she could not deny that it was great fun to bait the man.

"Entertaining, Mr. Darcy? I hardly think they would have turned to _you_ for the evening's liveliness." He frowned.

"Miss Bingley would disagree," Mr. Darcy muttered, his voice so low that Elizabeth barely caught the words.

"I'm sure she would," she replied, and her companion looked up quickly. Elizabeth felt a certain satisfaction in responding to words he had not meant for her to hear. _You ought to be careful what you say, and to whom, Mr. Darcy._ "I take it that is why I'm blessed with your company out here?"

"It is. What is _your_ purpose here, Miss Bennett?" He sounded a little colder now. "Why do you turn away from your hosts in favor of the outdoors, when it grows so dark? Should you not be tending to your sister?"

"Oh! tending to her that we might sooner be gone from this place, do you mean?"

"Not at all," he responded, turning to look over the cresting hills that were now nearly silhouetted against the sky. "You are Mr. Bingley's guests, not mine, and I have no opinion as to your being here." Elizabeth tilted her head again, turning to look, as he did, towards the horizon.

"Indeed, you seemed most neutral upon my entrance earlier today, Mr. Darcy," she said, her tone liltingly innocent. She did not see his sidelong glance at her, nor the way his chin lifted a fraction after that glance.

"If you are referring to my bluntness, Miss Bennett, rest assured, that quality is not reserved for you."

"I do not doubt it," replied she, lacing her fingers together behind her back. "After all, one's skill at socializing can only be improved through practice, and your lack of zeal when it comes to conversation is quite apparent. It is no wonder to me that you lack, too, a delicacy of speech." He paused before replying, giving her another look. This one the lady did see, but chose to ignore.

"It is not a delicacy of speech I lack, madam, but rather a desire to make use of pretty words at all."

"Oh, so you find conversation tedious and unimportant?"

"Conversation in and of itself is neither; conversation with persons unable to uphold a worthy exchange is both." Elizabeth turned directly at this, her eyes meeting his unashamedly.

"And I suppose the number of persons who meet such a standard is as low as the number of 'truly accomplished' ladies in your acquaintance?" Mr. Darcy, brows lifted, eyed her for a moment and then shook his head.

"It's true, there are few I have found capable of holding my interest."

"It seems, then," Elizabeth began, without quite knowing why, "that there is one more." His dark, dark gaze narrowed.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, _we_ appear to be having a conversation, would you not say, Mr. Darcy?" She smiled at him then, confidant in her victory.

"No, I would not," he retorted, breaking her surety with the firm weight of his words.

"What would you care to call it, then?" Elizabeth was annoyed, now, as she had not been throughout their little exchange of banter. "Your _deigning _to speak to someone unworthy of your attentions? Is this a favor I should be grateful for, then?" Mr. Darcy drew back, looking briefly away from her before meeting her gaze.

"My intention was not one of offence, Miss Bennett," he said, that low, crisp voice sending strange and unwelcome shivers down Elizabeth's spine. There was a new look in his eyes, one that, when coupled with the deep tones of his voice, made her distinctly uncomfortable. She did not reply, unconsciously taking on a haughty expression that nearly matched that of the sister of Jane's beau, Miss Caroline Bingley herself. (Had Elizabeth realized this likeness, she would have vowed to forever avoid such an expression at once.) Mr. Darcy went on. "I meant only that one can hardly call a brief debate on one's faults a conversation."

"A debate on one's faults?" She laughed a little, unable to help herself. "Pray, tell me, what was our conclusion?"

"That I am not up to par with your expectations regarding social niceties," replied the gentleman, rather flatly. Elizabeth entertained, momentarily, the idea that he might be _hurt_ by her judgment of him, and then immediately dismissed the thought. _Who is he to be hurt by the truth after blatantly wounding my own pride on more than one occasion?_

"Indeed, Mr. Darcy, I suppose you are right." There was a moment of stillness between them, and Elizabeth found herself suddenly wanting to be away from him. There was an unfamiliar and rather unsettling tingle throughout her body, and she rubbed at her arms. She was about to suggest they return to the confines of the house when Mr. Darcy spoke.

"You look cold, Miss Bennett. Let us go in."

"An excellent idea," she said, lightly, her earlier indignation with him replaced by a desire to simply put this entire incident from her mind. However, she had not gotten two steps before her foot, placed unluckily on a slippery mound of dewy grass, slid sharply to the right and caused her to gasp and topple in that direction. Immediately, her flailing right hand landed on a firm wrist, and Elizabeth steadied herself against Mr. Darcy's crooked arm. Flushing, she coughed. "Thank you."

"Not at all," he muttered, and they continued. Elizabeth, walking swiftly now, tucked her hands beneath the opposite arms, her right palm still burning from the unexpected heat of Mr. Darcy's wrist and hand.

He held the door for her, and she entered without looking at him. As they made their way back to the warm, lighted chamber from which the sounds of Mr. Bingley and his sister emitted, Elizabeth found that she actually did not quite _dare_ to look at her companion.

_Don't be so silly, Lizzie_, she thought, straightening her posture and dropping her hands to her sides. _It was just a touch._

Her thoughts were so preoccupied, however, that she completely missed the dark, disagreeable Mr. Darcy's unnerved, confused gaze that failed to leave her figure, even as she rose finally to go to her rest for the night.


End file.
